pictures [styles x skårsgard]

one

Finding a job in the 21st Century could either be either close-to-impossible, or absolutely effortless. Unless you have a filthy rich parent to back you up, you're likely to fall under the first category.

So it was, in Harry's case. Papa Styles wasn't loaded, so the lad who had majored in Anthropology had to get a job as an assistant editor at a local Sacramento Magazine. That too, because his sister, who currently worked as a Director for a famous NYC Magazine, knew people.

Now most people would think, that an assistant editor's job is fun - and most importantly, serious. No, you're completely wrong there.

Instead of typing on computers, like the real editors, Harry had to write down things manually. Most of the time, he'd be on his feet, doing the job of an unacknowledged waiter, delivering coffees from desk, to desk.

It was his third day at work, at the La Bello, the wanna-be vogue magazine that circulated within the premises of Sacramento.

"Ten signs that you were likely a succulent in your past life," the curly haired boy recited the heading of his supposed article, exhaling right after.

"Heard of people being cats, dogs, horses - insects, even. What fuckery is this?" he muttered, earning a rather comical look from the last employee except him, left in the building, who happened to be passing by his desk.

Shifting awkwardly in his seat, he stationed the almost blank sheet of paper before him, watching as the lady exited the scene. It was past eleven, and he was the only soul left in the building, working overtime.

It was his second claptrap of an article for the day - the first one being "Ten things that prove artists like Beyoncé, Kanye West and EMINEM belong to a cult."

Why would people even be interested?

Taking his thick rimmed glasses off, Harry buried his pale face into his palms, letting a rather frustrated groan escape from the back of his throat.

"I fucking hate this place."

"Easy there, teabag. You're not the only one in the room."

Harry retracted his hands promptly, his gaze darting towards the direction of the deep, masculine baritone.

Teabag? But Americans admire the British accent, don't they?

The second Harry's gaze fell on what seemed to be one of the finest specimens from the garden of Jesus, his insides somersaulted.

And all he could think? What a vision.

It wasn't until the man arched a brow questionably at him, that Harry realised that he had been gaping at him, blatantly.

"I- uh- sorry," he answered, tearing his gaze away. Who was he again?

A deep laugh reverberated in the room, as the tall man paced closer, halting right next to the Brit's desk, and taking a seat on the edge.

With an almost lopsided smirk on his luscious, cherry-coloured lips, he lifted up one of the sheets on Harry's desk, making him wish he could leap out of the window.

The man's gaze was affixed to the paper for a couple seconds, as he read the heading out loud, before bursting into a fit of laughter, again.

"I heard that your job was miserable - but man, this is a whole new level of misery."

The tips of Harry's ears had started to flush a bright crimson, thus matching the colour of his already tinted cheeks. "Uh, yeah, I suppose," he answered, with a nervous chuckle.

"Harry Styles, the Cheshire cat. It's a pleasure to finally meet you," the man further spoke, leaning forward to an extent, where the British lad felt somewhere uncomfortable and intimidated. "You know, you've gained a little popularity here. I was dying to see you." He paused, to suck in a slow breath, his emerald eyes that matched Harry's own, inching down the Brit's facial structures, and halting at his lips. "Look at those lips."

Well, that was new. And slightly surprising. And also borderline alarming.

"Y-you were?" Harry sounded rather confused. Until then, he had been thinking, 'oh, what a cute guy', but at the moment, he was debating on whether or not, he should put the guy's name on his list of 'creepy bastards to stay away from'.

Well, only if he knew the guy's name. He wasn't brave enough to ask, so he decided on waiting.

The older man lifted a hand, resting it on Harry's slightly chubby cheek, his thumb gently pushing his lower lip downwards, detaching it from the upper one.

Harry, at the moment, could practically hear his heart thumping like an 808 drum, at a rock concert.

He was dumbfounded for a moment, as his severely-gay soul pranced around like a cat on meth... if that's actually a thing.

The two were frozen in the same position for a minute or two, before the taller chap retracted his hand, letting it fall onto his lap. He exhaled, before slowly climbing off the desk, and standing up on his feet.

Until then, Harry hadn't realised how tall the man was. This guy would put the Eiffel Tower to shame.

Without another word, he started heading towards the exit, making Harry desperately, frantically search for a topic to chat on.

The guy could've been creepy, and everything Harry's nightmares as a child comprised of, but he was undoubtedly hot, and had definitely left a dent in the Brit's heart.

He wanted to talk to him. He wanted him to return. His creepiness was oddly satisfying.

"Wha-what's your name?" Harry questioned, his voice sounding unusually croaky.

The man halted in his tracks, turning around for a brief moment. He didn't answer, but instead shot a question back at him, wearing the slyest of smirks that Harry had ever perceived. "You don't know who I am?"

The lad shook his head, as his lips stretched into a rather awkward smile.

"Oh, my God," the tall fellow snickered, throwing his head back, before turning back around, with his hands deep into his pockets, and exiting the scene.

Not at all weird, Harry convinced to himself. It's just America.

Slouching against his seat, Harry replayed the entire incident in his mind, his smile now replaced by a frown.

"And he thought the topics I covered were the weirdest thing at la Bello."